


The Tell-Tale Notes

by Small_Hobbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Greg are enjoying their regular drink and moan session, until Greg accidentally lets something slip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tell-Tale Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Graves Diggers ran an auction to raise money for this year's birthday donation for the wonderful Rupert Graves. ([Freightiners City Farm](http://www.freightlinersfarm.org.uk/))
> 
> Lory made the winning bid on my fic offer, so here it is for her.

John Watson and Greg Lestrade had been meeting at the White Hart every week for at least six months.  Generally they met on a Wednesday, although the day was moveable depending on circumstances.  Having a mid-week “gripe” evening worked well for both of them.  Technically they could gripe about anything they chose.  For John, this usually meant patients who ignored his instructions, receptionists who tried to do his job for him, and ridiculous amounts of paperwork.  For Greg, this usually meant witnesses who withheld information, colleagues who never replied to emails, and ridiculous amounts of paperwork.  And top of the gripe list for both of them was one Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, errant flatmate and general all round pain.

Greg brought the pints to the table and said to John, “You go first; you look as if you’ve already had a week of it.”

“Oh yes, there are plenty of people I could cheerfully strangle, although I probably shouldn’t say that to you,” John said with a grin.

“Tell me about it.  Sal suggested yesterday we open up one of the old plague pits and throw various bodies in; you can add yours to ours if you like.”

John laughed.  “And there’s his lordship.  You know the case he’s working on at the moment?”

Greg nodded, “Not one of mine, but I’m aware of the basics.”

“Well, the latest development involves tomato sauce.  Not the sort which comes in bottles, but the sort for use with pasta.  Which means there are plastic containers of sauce everywhere.  And that includes two on the floor.  And believe me, once you’ve accidentally trodden in a container of tomato sauce when you only have socks on your feet, you don’t fancy pasta that evening.”

Greg laughed.  “What did you do?”

“Went out to buy fish and chips.  Which I ate straight out of the paper.  It seemed the safest thing to do.  The containers were still all in place this morning when I went to work, so I’m hoping he will have done something about them before I get back.”  John shuddered.  “I left Mrs Hudson a note telling her there was an experiment in progress.  She certainly wouldn’t appreciate the sight of several containers of congealed tomato sauce, especially as one was also garnished with a sock.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t going to bother trying to rescue my sock - you never know what Sherlock’s put in things - so I took it off, dropped it into the container and hopped my way to the bathroom.”  John drained the rest of his glass.  “Right, it’s my shout, I’ll be back in a minute and you can have your turn.”

John came back to the table carrying two more pints.  Greg had been humming to himself, but stopped abruptly on John’s return.

“Nice tune,” John said.

“What, oh no, it was nothing,” Greg replied.  “I’d heard the case had something to do with Italian restaurants.  I had a text at some stupid time this morning, asking me for a list of the current specials at a range of restaurants in South Ken.  I told him to go and look for himself.”

“That’s normally the sort of thing he gets me to do.  It’s probably as well I came straight here when I finished work, otherwise I’d be tramping round South Ken, making a prat of myself as usual.  I can just imagine various snooty waiters looking down their noses at me as I write down the dish of the day.”  John paused.  “I wonder if it means Sherlock will start playing Italian tunes rather than his current composition.”

“Not sure that’s his sort of music.”

“No, probably not, too bright and cheerful,” John agreed and then gave Greg a curious look.  “Wait a minute, how do you know the type of music he plays?  And that tune you were humming, I thought I recognised it.  That’s one of Sherlock’s own, isn’t it?”

Greg shrugged.  “Maybe.”

John smiled.  “But the only way you’d have heard it is if you’d been in the flat, because Sherlock doesn’t play anywhere else.  And he wouldn’t be playing if it was an official police visit, which means it had to be something of a social occasion.”

Greg looked intently at his pint.

“And Sherlock doesn’t do social, generally; and we haven’t had people round for months, not since just after Easter.  All of which means there must be more to your relationship with Sherlock than meets the eye.”

“You know, living with Sherlock must be rubbing off.  You’re even starting to sound like him.”

“Don’t try and distract me!  I reckon congratulations are due, mate.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Why should I?  I have absolutely no romantic interest in him.  You’re both my friends, so I’m only too happy to see the pair of you together.  I assume you want to keep it quiet though?”

“Yes,” Greg nodded.  “It could cause a lot of problems, and neither of us want to make any noise about it.  I think Mrs Hudson suspects.”

“That’s fine, so long as she doesn’t think I’m heart-broken.”

Greg laughed.  “And Mycroft may know.”

“Yeah, but that goes without saying, it would be more of a surprise if he didn’t.  But does this mean I can no longer moan about Sherlock, because you’ll be taking his part?”

“Hardly, I do know what a complete and utter twat he can be.  Just because I have feelings for the bloke doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the horrors of treading in tomato sauce in your socks.  I’d hate for our Wednesdays at the White Hart to have to stop.”

“Good.  In which case, I shall be only too happy to continue.  And in the meantime, since I appeared to have finished my pint, it’s your round.”

 


End file.
